


Full Is Not Heavy As Empty

by Exaggerated_Specificity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Feminization, First Time, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, New Year's Resolutions, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Sam In Panties, Sibling Incest, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 04:30:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13139091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exaggerated_Specificity/pseuds/Exaggerated_Specificity
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Sam Winchester seems hell-bent on spending his entire winter break sulking and feeding his inner freak until he comes across a list of New Year's Resolutions he wrote the year prior. This was a new year and he was a new Sam. He needed a new list.Fic Playlist on SpotifySam's Resolutions (image)





	Full Is Not Heavy As Empty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soy_em](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soy_em/gifts).



> For the 2017 [SPN J2 Secret Santa](https://spn-j2-xmas.livejournal.com/).
> 
> I incorporated soy_em's love of weecest, first time, possessive/jealous boys, hurt/comfort (emotional in this case!), NC17, lingerie, and light feminization into this angsty little holiday tale. The title is from a Fiona Apple song.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, babe!
> 
> Massive thanks to M, J, and Tal for their stellar cheerleading, proof reading and inspiration!

It was snowing again or maybe it just hadn’t stopped. The sky had been locked in a seemingly permanent grey scowl all week and the temperature never quite managed to nudge up above freezing. Whatever, it wasn’t like the snowfall was affecting Sam’s plans, and the dismal weather had the subtle effect of making him feel marginally less shitty for mostly just staying in bed for the third day in a row. While he’d still managed to venture out into the icy cold Ohio mornings to freeze his nuts off with Dean on their daily run, he had been utterly useless otherwise, wasting his winter break under a thick, heavy blanket of depression.

Sam rolls over onto his belly with a soft huff and nuzzles his face into the pillow that smells only of his own stale sweat. He and Dean hadn’t needed to share a bed or even a room in this house and he missed their mingled scent. He lets a pathetic little sigh escape his lips and curls in around the malignant lump of self-loathing that’s been incubating in his belly. He considers getting up, only to think better of it as his thoughts drift back to Dean, as they so often did.

He’d tolerated the frigid, foggy morning to spend a few scant pre-dawn moments with his brother, the distance Sam felt growing between them seemed less vast during the quiet daily ritual. The familiarity of their matched pace, their alternating plumes of breath, that burn of exertion in Sam’s lungs making him feel a little more alive than he would as the day wore on.

After their run, Sam had curled up under the scratchy wool utility blanket on the couch until Dean emerged from the bathroom, zipped up into his grease-stained, navy-blue coveralls. Sam watched in stoic silence as Dean pulled on fresh socks and laced up his work boots. Dad was up in Maine on a job and Dean was still saving for a car of his own. So, for now, it was a twenty-minute hike from their cracker-box of a house on East Pike, across the bridge that spanned I-70, and over to Zanesville Oil and Tire where Dean had been working in the month or so since they put down temporary roots in this town.

“Please try and clean up in here a little today. Okay, Sammy?” Dean had asked as he pulled on his gloves and coat. “Dad went to all the trouble of getting us that damn tree, least you could do is help keep the place clean.”

Sam couldn’t hide the way his brow furrowed if he tried. The grumpiness that crept into Dean’s voice when he was bossing Sam around made him sound too much like Dad. Besides, Sam didn’t see how the stupid Christmas tree and cleaning up were correlated in any way. It wasn’t like Dean ever lifted a finger. He was a bigger slob than Sam was even on his best day.

“At least give that fuckin’ thing some more water. If it keeps shedding needles like that it’s gonna be bare before New Year’s.”

Sam shrugged, he was sick of picking the sharp little green-brown spines out of his socks.

“Yeah, okay,” he replied, not committing to anything specific.

After Dean had stomped out into the cold, Sam seriously considered not only watering their little five-foot Douglas fir but also trying to clean up the needles, if the ancient vacuum he’d spotted in the hall closet even worked. Maybe he’d even surprise Dean by doing the dishes. But now, back in bed, after dozing away the rest of the morning, Sam was feeling decidedly less motivated.

He thinks of Dean off at his job on the other side of the interstate where he probably spent just as much time flirting with the owner’s daughter, Sadie Dubonette, as he did changing oil and fixing flats.

Sam sighs as he stretches out like a cat on the tiny mattress, letting his hips drag along the dingy sheets to make the lace cupping his dick and balls bite in just enough for his breath to catch in his throat. He imagines pretty, doe-eyed Sadie getting on her knees for his brother, just like Sam wanted to. He spreads his thighs and arches his back, the panties he suspects belong to her digging deep between his ass cheeks.

He grunts into the sheets and lets it happen, pleasure and shame washing over him in equal measure, rutting against the mattress as he imagines being the one getting to take care of Dean’s mid-day hard on.

Another day, another pretty pair from Dean’s panty stash to defile. He’d have had his way with the entire collection more than once over before winter break was through.

~~~

Sam used to hate the label ‘freak’ more than just about anything else. He just wanted to be a normal, unassuming kid. Not the kind that traveled cross-country killing monsters. Certainly not the kind that had been having filthy thoughts about his big brother since he was old enough to pitch a tent in his Underoos. Then, near the end of the summer, Sam found it. Dean’s panty stash.

Before the panties, Sam had done his best to keep those feelings about Dean tucked in close to his heart where they’d never see the light of day. But finding out that Dean was a trophy keeper, just like one of the serial killers Sam liked to whittle away hours reading about in the library, had made Sam feel a little more confident in embracing his otherness.

It was just a silly, everyday accident that led to this revelation. Dean’s duffle bag wasn’t real army issue like Dad’s. It was a cheaply-made Sears clearance bin special that had just gotten threadbare over the years. The bottom of the rotten thing gave way one night while they were loading up the Impala, spilling all of Dean’s worldly possessions out onto the damp parking lot as they were loading up to leave town.

Sam had offered to help Dean clean up the explosion of clothes, toiletries, and skin mags that resulted but Dean just shooed him away in an angry huff. Sam hadn’t missed the panic that flared across his brother’s face as he hurried to shove the mess back into the tattered remnants of his bag. And he hadn’t missed seeing Dean cram a fist full of pink satin, black lace and white cotton underthings into his back pocket.

The next night, in their new motel, when Dean was in the shower and Dad was snoring on the couch, Sam dug around in Dean’s replacement duffle and found the collection concealed under the bag’s bottom panel. Sam spread all nine pairs out on the dingy motel coverlet to inspect and discovered that each was as different and unique as Sam presumed their respective owners had been.

Sam would have believed that one, maybe two, pairs had been accidentally left behind after a night of passion or given to Dean as a keepsake but nine pairs? Nine pairs meant Dean was snatching them up, secreting them away, and playing dumb when his dates tried to find them in the morning. The jealousy and desire that flared like hellfire in Sam’s chest as he let his hand trail over them was exhilarating and more than just a little erotic.

After hiding them away again, Sam couldn’t stop thinking about them. How they felt under his hands. What they smelled like. He started to wonder what they’d feel like if he put them on. What it would feel like to have Dean peel them off of him again.

He only took one pair at first. They were soft white cotton with faded little pink and blue butterflies printed all over. There was a tiny bit of string trailing from the front where a sweet little bow had probably once been stitched but it had fallen off sometime before they ended up in Sam’s possession.

He snuck them on under his PJ pants that same night. Once Dean was asleep next to him in their shared motel bed, Sam had slipped a hand down the front of his pants and had prodded at that bit of string with his finger. He wondered if the bow had been pink or blue. He wished it were still there to decorate the spot where his stiffy threatened to pop through the fabric, to help hide the wet smudge of precome spreading there.

Sam hadn’t meant to make such a mess of them and he spent the next day terrified Dean would notice they were missing before he’d had time to wash and sneak them back into their hiding spot. Once Sam did put them back, he was even more terrified that Dean would notice they’d been bathroom sink washed and air dried. If Dean had noticed, he hadn’t accused Sam of anything. Weeks went by and he never mentioned it.

The next pair was even better, pink and satiny. Sam buried his face in the panties sweet softness and swore they smelled like Dean. Like Dean smelled down there. It was possible they’d just taken on his scent from being in close proximity to his dirty laundry, but Sam preferred to imagine Dean slipping them on, cheeks as pink as the fabric, to model them for his lady love. He pictured how they’d look riding up a little, Dean’s big dick too-snug in their silky embrace. Sam sucked his own come from the crotch that night just in case it hadn’t been his imagination.

There were eleven pairs in Dean’s collection now and Sam had used every single one to make-believe at being his brother’s fuck toy.

So much for not being a ‘freak.’

~~~

Now, Sadie’s thong was hidden away under Sam’s Salvation Army sweatpants, the Christmas tree was watered, the needles had been vacuumed, dishes were piled in the sink for Sam to wash later and the living room was even sort of half-tidied. This was effort. This was good.

After rubbing his dick raw on the maroon lace thong for the third time since Dean left for work, the guilt Sam had been avoiding all week finally caught up to him. And, it wasn’t just the normal ‘fingering your asshole with Lubriderm while wearing your brother’s girlfriend’s panties’ sort of guilt. He had to get up and do something productive or he was going to walk out to I-70 and fling himself off the overpass.

In the middle of clearing the mess off their wobbly, Formica-topped coffee table, Sam came across his old composition book, buried under an empty pizza box and a stack of research he’d done for Dad’s latest case. Sam sank back into the couch and flipped through pages of notes and doodles from the previous school year. Near the end, he came across a list of New Year’s resolutions he’d written. It was so pathetic that Sam wanted to puke.

He remembered writing them with such strength of conviction at the time and he yet he hadn’t accomplished a single thing on the list. For fuck’s sake, look at him now, dehydrated from beating off in a pair of stolen panties all day and he couldn’t even manage to do the dishes without being scolded by his big brother first. Jesus, talk about flinging yourself off an overpass.

He digs through the junk on the table and finds a black ballpoint pen with the Creno’s Pizza logo printed on the side. After testing it for ink on the composition book’s cover, he scratches through the title at the top of the page that says, “RESOLUTIONS FOR 1997” and writes “RESOLUTIONS FOR 1998” above it in larger, angrier letters, going over them in triplicate to emphasize the sentiment.

This was a new year and he was a new Sam. He needed a new list. He skims through it again, considering what needed changing, biting at his bottom lip and clicking the pen as he thinks.

He reads the first bullet point out loud, “GET STRONGER,” and nods in agreement. Yeah, good. Being more useful to Dad might help pull him out of this rut.

The sub-bullets underneath it read: RUN 3 MILES A DAY, LIFT WEIGHTS (BOOKS, BRICKS?), TARGET PRACTICE (HANDGUN, SHOTGUN), and SPAR WITH DEAN. Sam draws a line through “3 MILES A DAY” and replaces it with “5 MILES A DAY.” He scribbles through the “SPAR WITH DEAN” bullet completely. Yeah, spar with Dean and cream his fucking shorts in about 30 seconds flat. No thanks. He writes “CROSSBOW” alongside the other weaponry listed next to “TARGET PRACTICE” and keeps going down the list.

Number 2: GET SMARTER. Sure. Why not? The sub-bullets for this resolution are: GET MORE SLEEP, STUDY FOR AP CALC AND PHYSICS, STUDY FOR SATS AND ACTS, TALK TO BOBBY FOR BOOKS (RITA LUCARELLI DEMONOLOGY, ARS ALMADEL, ARS NOTORIA, BINSFELD’S CLASSIFICATION OF DEMONS…), and PRACTICE LATIN with two exclamation points.

The fact that Sam’s first thought after reading this resolution is a Homer Simpson voice saying: “can’t sleep… masturbating” tells him he should leave this part of the list completely intact. Sam didn’t really need to study to get good grades, but he could do so much better if he focused more on applying himself. He could drink that guidance counselor Kool-Aid.

The next bullet is: GET A DATE. Sam shakes his head and sighs. The “FIX SKIN” sub-bullet has a frowny face doodled next to it followed by “STOP PICKING YOUR ZITS” underlined for emphasis. His skin wasn’t looking that bad these days, not that it mattered. He didn’t want to date anyone. The rest of the list would be heartbreaking if it wasn’t so embarrassing. SAVE FOR HAIRCUT. SAVE FOR COOL CLOTHES. PRACTICE KISSING (?). DON’T JERK OFF SO MUCH. STOP BEING A FUCKING PERVERT.

Yeah. Right. He’d failed on those last two in spades this year.

He scrawls a huge “X” across the entire “GET A DATE” section and crisscrosses over it again and again until the ink-saturated paper threatens to rip.

“GET HAPPIER,” he says, reading the final bullet aloud. The laugh that escapes afterward is unexpected and hurts his throat a little for how harsh it is. Fifteen-year-old Sam had thought he’d be happier if he could just: BE A BETTER PERSON, GO TO CHURCH (?), STOP FIGHTING WITH DAD and, most obviously of course, STOP THINKING ABOUT DEAN LIKE THAT.

Sam gets up and chucks the open comp book onto the pile of crap still littering the coffee table. The page curls in over itself a little, heavy with fresh ink and tattered from the violence of his angry pen strokes.

If there’s one consistent thread, it’s that his entire fucking life would be better if he wasn’t like this. If he wasn’t a sick fuck. His throat burns with the threat of tears. He balls his fists up and pushes them into his eye sockets, taking deep breaths as he fights angry tears.

The sound of Dean’s key in the door and his heavy boots stomping off the snow on the cracked concrete stoop is such a shock that Sam’s heart feels like it stops completely for a startlingly long moment before it jolts back into action and tries to rabbit-kick out of his ribcage.

He didn’t realize it was so late. He hadn’t showered. He still wearing Sadie’s thong and his asshole was still throbbing from his probing fingers, greased up deep with dollar-store lotion.

Dean comes in from the snowy twilight with a rush of sudden cold, his breath fogging around his pink-tinged cheeks and ears like a halo. He doesn’t even notice Sam standing there between the couch and coffee table, locked in place like a deer on the highway staring down the Impala’s high-beams. He shuts the door behind him, breathing hard from the cold and exertion as he bends down to untie his slush and mud caked boots.

Despite the cold, the room is tiny, and Sam can smell the sweat and grease on Dean’s exertion-heated skin, the sourness of his tired breaths. Sam’s fucked up Pavlovian response to his brother’s presence, his smell, is to chub up in the too-snug front of Sadie’s panties, his mouth flooding with saliva. He gulps it down loudly, just in time for Dean to look up at him.

“Heya, Sam,” Dean huffs, licking those bright-pink, pillow soft lips of his. “You okay?”

Sam isn’t exactly a hard book to read.

Dean looks around with a slight sheen of concern on his face that fades into a tired smile as he sees Sam had done what he asked.

“Thanks for cleaning up in here, dude.”

Dean’s eyes make their way back to the coffee table between them, settling on the open composition book and Sam’s angry scribbles. He reaches out to pick it up nonchalantly, his gloved thumb smoothing out the curled page as his bright green eyes skim the words.

“Workin’ on some New Year’s Resolutions, Sammy?” Dean asks, glancing up at Sam quizzically.

The idea of having to wrestle a notebook out of Dean’s hands that’s a few choice words away from admitting his most shameful secret in a game of childish keep-away makes Sam’s stomach swoop. It’s enough to finally yank him out of his momentary paralysis.

“Fuck you, give it!” His voice cracks pitifully as he tries to swipe the notebook out of Dean’s hand.

Reflexively, Dean takes a small step back and swings the arm holding the notebook swiftly out of Sam’s desperate reach. He smirks at Sam, but it withers as he sees the frantic rage on Sam’s face. He shrugs off his coat and dumps it over the back of the couch, shedding one glove and switching Sam’s comp book into the newly bare hand to shed the other one.

“It’s private. Give it back!” Sam spits, even more shrilly, making more of an effort this time as he practically lunges over the back of the couch.

The movement makes the lacy thong wedge firmly between his butt cheeks, the lace scraping over his raw asshole. He bites back a grunt and he heaves over onto the back of the couch clumsily, his lanky arm somehow managing to whack the notebook out of Dean’s hand, sending it skidding onto the floor under their tiny two-seat kitchen table.

“Jesus, Sam. Calm down.” Dean says, looking shocked and a little hurt at Sam’s frantic display. “Sorry, I just think it’s cute, okay?”

“Patronizing dick,” Sam growls as his throat tightens.

“I’ll spar with you, is that what you want? That’s what it said. Get stronger, right?”

Dean looked sincere. He could have just as easily dove under the table and grabbed the notebook again. He have bolted to the bathroom with it and slammed the door, making sure Sam could hear him giggle loudly as he read it. Instead, he was trying to help.

It results in Sam feeling even worse.

“Goddamn it, Dean! I said it’s private!”

Sam knows he’s overreacting but right now all he wants is to dig a fucking hole with his bare hands in the frozen back yard and bury the notebook along with all the fucked-up feelings he has for his big brother.

He scrambles around the couch and snatches it from underneath the wobbly kitchenette, shoving past Dean into the hallway.

He hears Dean call after him, but his heartbeat is pounding so hard in his ears that he barely hears it. He slams the bedroom door and falls back against it. He clutches the notebook to his chest and shuts his eyes as hot tears stream down his cheeks.

Dean doesn’t try to pound down the door. He doesn’t even knock or call for him again.

Eventually, he hears Dean take a long piss with the bathroom door wide open before going into his own room across the narrow hall from Sam’s, shutting the door quietly.

Sam bangs his head back against the hollow wood laminate, every nerve in his body bristling, crying out for some kind of release. That throbbing darkness in his belly feels like it was going to eat him alive.

After long minutes basking in the fading adrenaline of being almost caught, Sam finally unfurls and opens his eyes. He rips the page of resolutions out of the comp book and crumples it in his hand, dropping the notebook onto the threadbare carpet.

It would be better for Dean to hate him for the truth than to keep going like this. Sam knew he was pushing Dean away with all his brooding teenage bullshit. He takes a deep breath, blinking away the tears still clinging to his lashes before he goes out into the hall, silently making one new resolution for himself: confess.

He steps up to Dean’s door, his breath shaky as he knocks. It’s a feeble sound, so soft that he isn’t sure if Dean can even hear it. He pauses, squeezes the wad of paper that’s growing damp in his fist.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean’s voice sounds rough and tired, tinged with pain. Just like Dad’s always did after a long hunt.

Dean doesn’t look up at Sam as he enters the room. He’s sitting in black boxer-briefs and a white undershirt on the corner of his unmade bed, like he stripped down to get ready for a shower and just ran out of steam on his way to the bathroom. He’s leaning forward, rubbing at the back of his neck with his big, engine-grease smudged hand.

“Here, let me,” Sam says feebly, reaching toward his brother before hesitating. “I mean, if you want…”

“Yeah,” Dean grunts. “Yeah, that’d be great, Sam. I’m sore as shit.” He pulls his hand away, rolling his head back onto his shoulders to give his neck a slow stretch, side to side. His eyes are closed and his freckles stand out like a constellation against the skin of his nose that’s been kissed pink by the cold. He’s so breathtakingly beautiful that it takes Sam a moment to collect himself and knee up onto the bed behind him.

“Here,” Sam says, shoving the wadded-up page of New Year’s resolutions into his brother’s hand. “Sorry about before. You can read it. I was just… It’s lame. Whatever.” Sam lets his words trail off as he lays his hands across the span of Dean’s broad shoulders and starts working at the tense cords of muscle through the thin t-shirt.

He hears the crinkle of paper as Dean begins to unfold the wadded-up list and braces for whatever comes next, be it mocking or disgust. Instead, the sound stops and Dean hisses a little as Sam’s thumbs dig into a particularly tense spot next to his shoulder blade.

“Sorry,” Sam offers.

“Nah, feels good. Keep – fuck – yeah, right there. Don’t stop.”

Sam shudders for those words, the half-pained, half-blissed out tone of them. He tucks them away for easy retrieval later as Dean sags back into his expert hands. He’d worked more knots out of John’s neck than he could count.

“I was the only mechanic there today, what with the holidays and the snow. Mr. Dubonette sent Sadie home before lunch and it was just me and him until four. Fucking sucked, man.”

“Sorry,” Sam says softly as he digs his elbow into the meat of Dean’s back.

Dean groans loudly, a deep, sensual sound that makes Sam’s asshole clench. He smiles to himself and keeps working, settling into the natural calm between them, his outburst earlier seeming faded and far off, like a distant memory. The list lays in Dean’s lap still mostly crumpled and forgotten.

By the time he finished giving Dean’s neck, shoulders and lower back the best he had, Sam was barely thinking about his motivation for coming into Dean’s room in the first place.

“Sammy, what did you mean by: stop thinking about Dean like that?”

Sam’s hands stiffen where they’re folded over Dean’s right shoulder, his mouth opening for an explanation or an excuse, something, but nothing comes.

He hears the paper again, the sound of Dean’s hands smoothing it out.

Sam sits back on his haunches, letting his hands slide down Dean’s back before settling in his lap. He sits quietly and waits for the other shoe to drop.

“You know you can talk to me, Sam. About anything at all. This stuff is – I mean I never took the SATs or whatever but, the rest of this stuff… I can help. Let me help, okay?”

Sam laughs, shaking his head and burying his face in his hands. Fuck, he was stupid.

“Don’t say things like that, Dean,” he says into his palms. “Don’t pretend you understand.”

The tears are back, soaking his lashes as he presses his fingertips against his eyelids, trying to stop the flood.

“So, help me understand, Sam. I can’t give you what you need if you don’t tell me what you want.”

Dean turns to face him on the bed even as Sam tries to curl into a ball and disappear.

Dean’s hands are rough, and they smell like the inside of an engine but they’re the exact kind of warm and reassuring Sam is starving for as they grip his forearms, pull his hands away from his face, and tug him into an uncomfortable, seated embrace. He hugs Dean back, tucking his face into the side of his brother’s neck to breathe in the motor oil and sweat.

He doesn’t know what to do, what to say, or where he could even begin to help Dean understand what he’s feeling in a way that wouldn’t make things worse.

They stay like that, in silence, for a long time, Sam quietly leaking tears and Dean just holding him close.

Then, everything changes.

“Show me, Sammy.”

Sam feels the words as much as he hears them. Their chests are pressed together and Dean’s voice rumbles through him as his wide palm rubs slow circles across the dip of Sam’s lower back.

“It’s okay. I know you have them on.”

For a moment, Sam isn’t sure he didn’t just imagine it or hear him wrong but then the tips of Dean’s fingers find their way under the hem of Sam’s t-shirt and begin to trace along the elastic waistband of his sweats.

He clings to Dean, hands balling up in the thin material of Dean’s shirt as his fingers slip lower, under the waistband, to skirt over the lace trim of the panties.

Caught, reeling, Sam’s heart races.

“Dean, I – ” he stutters as he pulls away, eyes frantically searching Dean’s face as he tries to find the words. Anything. To explain. Confess.

“I thought you’d like these ones.” Dean smiles. “Now, show me.”

Sam sinks back to his elbows and looks down at his crotch, the bunchy, too-big grey sweats obscuring what was hiding beneath.

How the fuck did he know?

The heated, knowing look in Dean’s eyes is mind-blowing. Life changing. Sam’s wildest fantasy come to life.

“What? You think you’re the only pervert in this family, Sammy?”

Dean smirks as his hands dig into the sweats bunched at Sam’s hips. He tugs, grinning like a fucking wolf when they slide half way to Sam’s knees, exposing the pretty lace clinging to Sam’s half-hard dick.

Dean just stares for a long time, his fingers twitching where they were tucked in against the bare skin of Sam’s thighs.

“Fucking perfect,” Dean finally says before slowly sliding off the foot of the bed and pulling Sam’s sweats the rest of the way down. He pulls off his own shirt and crawls back onto the bed, up between Sam’s legs, up and up until they’re face to face, slotted together like lovers.

Sam can barely breathe, barely move, his legs falling open to accommodate Dean’s hips, his hands settling shakily on Dean’s biceps.

“This what you wanted?” Dean asks, pushing Sam’s shaggy bangs back away from his forehead as their eyes meet.

All Sam can do is nod, his mouth open and his bottom lip trembling.

It had to be a dream. Had to.

Dean’s hips rock against him and Sam can feel that he’s hard too, rock hard. The thick line of Dean’s erection nudges at Sam’s balls in their lacy pouch. He whimpers, squeezing Dean’s hips between his thighs.

Then Dean’s kissing him. His tongue licking in gently over Sam’s own, his lips buttery and soft. It’s slow, it’s perfect, and it’s all Sam can do to keep his eyes from rolling back up into his head in total ecstasy.

Dean pulls away and looks down at him again, licking baby-brother spit off his lips.

“It’s okay,” Dean says, sounding as breathless as Sam feels. “Come on, kiss me back.”

This time Sam sucks on Dean’s tongue when it slides into his mouth, he rocks up into the firm press of Dean’s hard on and groans into his mouth. Dean smells like a long hard day of work and Sam feels so small underneath him, so lithe and delicate, the lace panties clinging desperately to the curve of his dick. Dean kisses him deeper, folding down over him perfectly and it’s everything Sam could have wanted and more.

Sam ruts up into him, chasing the friction, and before he even realizes what’s happening he’s gasping and whimpering into Dean’s mouth, his balls seizing up, his load spilling out in a messy flood over his tensed lower belly.

“Fuck,” Dean says with a chuckle. “Already made a mess for me.”

He’s watching Sam with nothing but love in his eyes as he pushes up, looking down between them at the come that had spattered all over Sam’s belly from under the waistband of the thong.

Sam’s face heats up and the temptation to hide it in his hands rushes back but, before he can manage, Dean is sitting back on his haunches and is pushing Sam’s t-shirt up and out of the way, his eyes on the come pooling beneath Sam’s belly button.

Dean takes his cock out, reaching into his underwear for it with his right hand as he shoves the waistband under his balls with the other. He strokes it a few times, eyes locked on Sam’s messy stomach. The tip is purple and wet and it’s a goddamn handful even in Dean’s big, calloused fist.

Sam wants to whimper at the sight of it but focuses on taking off his shirt instead. As he wriggles free, Dean folds down over him again, keeping space between them so he doesn’t end up covered in Sam’s load.

He smiles down at Sam before he drags his hand through the cooling mess, slicking his cock with it.

It’s the hottest thing Sam has ever seen in his entire fucking life. Sam starts trying to shove the panties down fruitlessly as Dean slowly jacks his come covered dick.

“Keep ‘em on,” he grunts, letting go of his erection and slipping his hand between them. He wiggles two come-smeared fingers under the lace and rubs them over Sam’s asshole, groaning as they slide deeper into the softened, slippery opening than he probably intended.

“God, Sam,” he huffs. A prayer, practically a whisper. “Are you wet for me? Wet for your big brother? Fuck, get your hand on me, please.”

He pushes in deeper as Sam gets his clumsy fingers wrapped around Dean’s dick. He wants it inside him, pressing in, impossibly huge. He wants it to split him in fucking half.

“Fuck me. Dean, please. Please. I want it.” He squeezes and yanks at Dean’s dick desperately, like he can get it up inside him with sheer force of will.

“Show me that wet pussy first, baby,” Dean purrs, licking at Sam’s lips before pushing up off of him and pulling those thick fingers out of his loosened hole.

It takes a little coaxing, but Sam gets on his knees, pressing his chest into the mattress and looking back over his shoulder at Dean as he reaches back and tugs the thong aside.

Sam’s hand is shaking as Dean knees up close, his eyes locked reverently where Sam is so very pink and wet and open.

“God,” he groans. “So pretty.”

Sam’s blushing head to toe.

Dean clears his throat and spits, hitting Sam’s asshole dead center. He massages it in with the head of his dick.

Sam has to shut his eyes, it feels like he’s about to come apart at the seams. As much as he wants this, has wanted it for as long as he can remember, Dean seeing him like this is the most terrifying thing he can imagine.

He can hear Dean mouthing at his own fingers, wetting them sloppily. Then, the thick heat of his prick is gone and his rough but wet fingers corkscrew back inside, as deep as they can go in one aching slide. Sam grunts, clawing at the mattress as he trembles from head to toe, trying to breathe, trying to make his body yield.

“So little still, Sam. So fucking tight.”

Dean scissors his fingers to make more room and in the process presses against Sam’s prostate. It’s so good his vision goes fuzzy at the edges and he whines, high and drawn out into the pillow. The silky lace of the thong slips out of his grip, snapping back over the curve of his ass cheek to bite into the rim of his asshole.

He yelps and his back arches hard, his hole clenching up tight around his brother’s fingers.

Dean catches his thumb in the lace and pulls it back some, still letting it tickle at the edge of where he’s stretching Sam open.

“You like it rubbing you there?”

Sam nods breathlessly into the pillow and pushes back onto Dean’s fingers.

“Should load this pussy up, wad these pretty panties into a ball and shove them up inside you. Let the lace scrape you up in there too. Little fuckin’ thief.”

Dean slips his fingers out and tugs the thong back hard, letting go to make it snap like a rubber band over Sam’s puffy hole.

Sam cries out and reaches between his legs, snatching up his cock and balls into his desperate, sweaty hand, squeezing hard so he doesn’t come again.

Dean slides the thick, hot head of his dick over Sam’s asshole, making the lace slippery-wet with his precome. He holds it there, rocking his hips, like he’s going to fuck the lace right up into him.

“You’re not nearly as sneaky as you think you are, baby.”

Then Dean is gone, the pressure and heat of his throbbing dick rutting against Sam’s swollen hole, the threat of pain and dominance and the promise of a deep, hard fucking – Sam’s first – evaporates. It send irrational jolt of panic through Sam and he crumples down onto the mattress and turns to look for his brother.

“Dean?” His voice sounds so young, so broken. He’s gripped by the idea of Dean being suddenly disgusted by Sam and leaving. “Dean!”

“Sorry, Sammy. Had to get – ” Dean’s there, completely naked now, with the bottle of Astroglide that lived in the medicine cabinet in his hand. When he sees Sam, his face falls, softening immediately, and he crosses to the bed quickly, scooping Sam up and kissing him with all the passion and fire he had before. It takes Sam’s breath away, dissolves his fears, and leaves his heart pounding for an entirely different reason.

Dean’s hands smooth over Sam’s cheeks as he pulls away, breathless too. He traces Sam’s bottom lip with his calloused thumb and then kisses him sweetly, a glassy, tender look in his eyes.

“Sam, if this is too much. We can just…”

“No, Dean. Please. I need this, I need you!”

Dean doesn’t mind Sam’s desperation, the way his tears melt into their kisses. He devours Sam like he’s a starving man, and finally takes off the panties.

~~~

“Always been mine. Haven’t you, Sammy? Never belonged to anyone else.”

“Never needed anybody else, Dean.”

 

 

 


End file.
